


we carry on through the storm, tired soldiers in this war (remember what we're fighting for)

by violetdaphne



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Broken Bones, Canon-Typical Violence, Captivity, F/F, F/M, Families of Choice, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Hospitals, Hugs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Isolation, Mental Health Issues, Nightmares, Nonverbal Communication, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Slice of Life, Swearing, Team as Family, Whump, Whumptober
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:08:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26759224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetdaphne/pseuds/violetdaphne
Summary: Billy Butcher knew right from the beginning that this was gonna be a shit show.Might as well make it a good one.-My take on Whumptober 2020 for The Boys.
Relationships: Becca Butcher/Billy Butcher, Billy Butcher & Ryan Butcher | The Homelander's Son, Elena/Queen Maeve (The Boys), Hughie Campbell/Starlight | Annie January, The Female | Kimiko Miyashiro/The Frenchman
Comments: 58
Kudos: 222





	1. day one - waking up restrained

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! I haven't written in a while, but the lack of fics for this show is scary, so I figured I would try my hand at whumptober! I can't promise to post updates in a timely manner, but I'll try my best :) 
> 
> The title is taken from Meet Me on the Battlefield by SVRCINA. 
> 
> Also, this is not exactly what you would call 'edited' lol.

He knew it wouldn’t seem it, but Hughie wasn’t exactly a lightweight. Despite the lack of meat on his bones and the gangliness to his limbs, it took more than the normal amount of alcohol to get him tipsy, and even  _ more  _ to cause a hangover. He can really only recall once or twice in his life being truly hungover; headache, vomiting, dizziness, the whole _ fucking shebang _ . 

So, he was a little confused when he woke up to a pounding behind his eyes and a sour taste in his mouth. He was almost 85% sure he didn’t drink last night, but then again, Frenchie can be surprisingly persuasive when he wants to be. 

He tried to sit up. Keyword being  _ tried _ . 

He forced his eyes open, ignoring the throbbing in his skull when he did so. This was most definitely  _ not  _ his small cot and most definitely  _ not  _ his even smaller room under the smoke shop they’ve taken residence in. He lay on the ground of a dim, empty room, the only light coming in from a tiny, barred window near the ceiling. Not  _ their  _ basement, but  _ a  _ basement, judging by the height. His hands were bound behind him with what felt like some sort of cord, unforgiving when he shifted his wrists around, cutting harshly into his skin. His ankles seemed to be subject to the same treatment. He could make out a door across from him, no doubt locked. 

_ What the fuck happened? _

Hughie exhaled shakily. His head was fuzzy, body not responding in the way he wanted. Drugged, most likely. The last thing he remembered was heading back to the smoke shop. It was late, and drizzling, he thinks. He only leaves their makeshift bunker for two things; groceries, and Annie. 

_ Annie _ . 

He had left to meet with Annie, despite Butcher’s plentiful and violent warnings not to. He hopes this isn’t Vought’s doing, Butcher would have a field day berating Hughie with  _ I told you so _ ’s, if he even bothered to get him out of here. He wouldn’t put it past the man to simply leave him to teach him a lesson. 

There was a sudden creaking from the other side of the door, followed by heavy footsteps. His eyes were stuck on the door, expecting Homelander or Stormfront to stalk in and kill him on the spot. Without remorse, without guilt. 

The lock jingled, the worn hinges squeaking as someone swung the door open. 

It wasn’t Homelander. Or Stormfront. 

It was just a man. Their jeans and shirt were disheveled, boots caked in what Hughie hoped wasn’t blood, and,  _ oh _ ,  _ yep _ , that’s a gun in his hand. 

He looked Hughie up and down, gun pointed at him. 

‘’The Frenchman. Where is he?’’

_ What? _

A scowl took over the man’s face when he didn’t answer.  _ Great job, Hughie, you’ve upset the guy with the gun _ . 

‘’Where is  _ he _ ?’’ He asked again. ‘’You work with him, I know this, now tell me where he is or I’ll empty this  _ gun  _ into your  _ head _ .’’

The man’s eyes were wide, glazed over, sweaty fingers on the trigger. There was a clear accent to his voice, one that Hughie’s heard almost everyday for the last couple of months. 

French. 

He clicked the safety off. 

‘’ _ No _ , um, okay, Frenchie? Um, why, why do you need him?’’ He’s stalling and he knows  _ it _ , whoever the hell this is knows  _ it _ , but he doesn’t exactly have a better idea. His head is cloudy, he’s pretty sure his hands are going numb, and  _ god  _ he really doesn’t want to get shot. 

‘’The Frenchman owes me quite a large sum of money,’’ The man grounds out. ‘’Money he has  _ yet  _ to deliver.’’ 

Hughie gulps. Alright, so not Supe related, just Frenchie being a  _ rat  _ related. Got it. He shifts, the wall scraping against his shoulders uncomfortably. 

The man groans, raising the gun again. ‘’Well -’’

Of course, that’s when the window explodes. 

It’s  _ loud _ , shaking the room, sending a cloud of smoke, dust, and shards of glass over them. Hughie dives to the side, lungs burning and head pounding worse than before. He sees a figure pounce through the ruined wall, swift and small. They make quick work of the man, if the  _ crack  _ of his neck,  _ squelch  _ of blood and tissue, and sudden silence is any indication. 

Something touches his arm, and he flinches, hard, knocking back into the wall. There’s a shushing, soft and quiet. Hands reach behind him, ripping the cords around his hands and ankles. Feeling rushes back so quick it’s almost painful. The same small hands help him to sit up, and he’s finally able to rub the grime from his eyes. 

Kimiko stares back at him. There’s blood smeared on her cheek, and he’s pretty sure that’s brain matter in her hair, but her eyes are relieved, smile, warm. 

‘’Oi, I thought I called dibs!’’ 

Butcher stands at the opening in the wall, armed and breathing heavily. Kimiko glances at him, shrugging with a smug smirk. She helps up from the floor, hand curling around his bicep when he falls back against the wall, legs not quite holding his weight. 

He hears Butcher snort. ‘’Like a baby doe, ain’t ya? What’d they drug you with?’’ 

‘’No clue.’’ He mumbles. They place his arms over their shoulders, leading him outside. He shivers in the cold night air, head lolling onto Butcher’s shoulder. He can feel the man tense at the contact, but he’s too tired to put much thought into it. 

‘’Petit Hughie!’’ 

Suddenly, he’s got a face full of Frenchie’s shoulder. He smells like gunpowder and nicotine, holding him tightly. 

‘’Oh, I am  _ so  _ sorry! That man, he is - ‘’

‘’Dead.’’ Butcher interrupts. ‘’He’s dead, therefore, not a problem anymore. So, lets head back, yeah?  _ Fuckin’  _ freezing out here.’’ 

Kimiko and Frenchie help him into the van with a carefulness that Hughie wouldn’t expect from them. Butcher’s riding shotgun, M.M. behind the wheel. He catches his eyes in the rearview mirror, something akin to relief in them. 

A comfortable quiet falls over them. Frenchie’s fluttering about with nervous energy, digging around in their first aid kit while Kimiko wipes blood from her nails. 

Frenchie is wrapping gauze around his wrists when he realizes something. 

‘’Hey, how’d you guys find me?’’

Frenchie pauses. M.M.’s looking at the road intently. 

Hughie narrows his eyes at Frenchie. ‘’Do you have a  _ tracker  _ on me?’’

‘’It was Butcher’s idea!’’ Frenchie was quite  _ literally  _ pointing fingers.

‘’ _ Oi _ , you cunt!’’ 

Whatever moment of quiet they had before was gone as Butcher and Frenchie dissolved into an argument of harsh French and aggressive English. 

M.M. shook his head with silent laughter. ‘’ _ Children _ , the lot of you. You’re all children.’’ 

Hughie chuckled softly. His head was killing him, threats of bodily harm were flying back and forth, and there’s  _ another _ tally to their combined body count.

He  _ should _ be panicking, he knows that. All he  _ can _ do right now is laugh as Frenchie throws an ice pack at Butcher, misses, and hits M.M. 

“ _ Frenchie _ !” 


	2. day two - kidnapped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So, once more, this isn't exactly edited but oh well! I really wanted to write something focusing on Frenchie, with a dash of Kimiko because they are too soft. 
> 
> !Trigger warning for child abuse!

Maman always smelled like vanilla; sweet and subtle, providing more comfort than a plush ever could. On particularly cold winter nights, she would bring him onto her lap, wrapping them in worn blankets knitted from her own hands, humming vague tunes that he has long ago forgotten. 

Papa always smelled like metal; smoky and hard, a scent that snatched away any thought of comfort or safety. Blankets were no longer a given but a  _ luxury _ , only provided when Papa thought he  _ deserved  _ it. 

-

The first time he ran from Papa, he was ten years old. Papa lay on the couch, stinking of alcohol and sweat. Frenchie watched as his eyes drooped, blinking slowly until they stayed closed, bottle falling to the floor with a quiet  _ clink _ . He swiped the key with practiced ease, tiptoeing out of the tiny apartment. 

He didn’t even make it across the street before a rough and familiar hand came down on his shoulder, grip tight, and dragged him back. 

That was, also, the first time his Papa brought a cigarette to his skin. 

The smell of his own burning flesh was not something he would soon forget. 

The second time he ran, he was thirteen years old. Papa had told him that he had to go out on  _ business _ . He was almost excited at first, as Papa had not let him leave the apartment for weeks, he had thought he would finally get some air that wasn’t polluted by cigar smoke and gunpowder. 

Papa laughed cruelly, locking him in the closet with nothing but a bottle of water. 

Frenchie waited until he was sure Papa had left before kicking at the wood door. Nothing happened, so he did it again. Again, and again, until the hinges creaked and cracks appeared around the knob. 

He made it further this time, managing to sneak a couple of blocks away when an ‘associate’ of his Papa’s found him. 

The car trunk he was thrown in was smaller, and darker than the closet. 

The final time he ran, it stuck. He was nearly sixteen, sleeping on the stained mattress he called a bed when he heard footsteps enter the room, followed by rustling closer to his head. 

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was Hello Kitty’s face over his own, the stiff material pulled taut over his nose and mouth, and  _ merde  _ he couldn’t  _ breathe _ . He grappled at the hands and arms that held him in place, digging his nails until he broke skin. Someone groaned from above him, jabbing what felt like their knee into his chest. 

The stench of metal was overwhelming. 

_ Papa _ . 

He froze, feigning unconsciousness until Papa moved to stand, and then struck, leaping to tackle the old man to the ground. His head hit the floor with a sickening crack, falling still almost at once. 

-

Frenchie never did find out if Papa had died that day. He wasn’t exactly sure he wanted an answer. 

-

Frenchie had lost track of time ages ago, staring at the laptop screen in front of him, unmoving. His eyes burned, neck aching from the same, uncomfortable angle it had been in all day. Butcher had him comb through leaked Vought files, but most of it was corporate jargon. 

He nearly jumped from his seat when a hand brushed over his neck, turning around abruptly. 

Kimiko stood there, eyes wide and lips drawn into a tight line. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders like a shawl, a gaudy knitted one M.M. had snagged from a thrift store when he had gone looking for material for his dollhouse. 

“Mon coeur,’’ He said softly. “You startled me.’’

She said nothing, of course. She didn’t need to though, as he studied the way her eyebrows raised questioningly toward his cot, and then toward the watch on his wrist.  _ It is late, will you be sleeping soon?  _

He smiled at her concern for him. “Soon, mon coeur, I must finish this reading.’’

Her brows furrowed, something that could only be described as a pout forming on her face. Shaking her head, she tugged on his arm stubbornly. 

“If I do not finish this, Butcher will have my head on a platter, and feed it to the neighborhood strays.’’ Frenchie joked, but all it seemed to do was deepen her frown. 

Huffing, Kimiko turned, grabbing a chair from off to the side and dragging it beside his own, plopping down next to him silently. Her chin came to rest on his shoulder, bony but grounding. She draped the blanket around him, keeping her gaze steady, as if daring him to say something. 

“No, you need your sleep,’’ He tried to protest, but made no move to dislodge her. Besides, he doesn’t think he would be able to even if he tried. 

Kimiko shook her head this time, digging her chin deeper into his shoulder, delicate hands curling around his biceps, as if to prove a point. _If you’re not sleeping, then neither am I._

He didn’t bother to try and smother his grin, instead simply turning back to the files at hand. 

The yarn of the blanket was itchy, and Kimiko smelled of acetone rather than vanilla, but he felt safe and warm in a way he hasn’t felt for decades. 


	3. day three - manhandled

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! For this chapter, I wanted to write something about Annie and how the Deep's assault on her affected her. I didn't exactly like how it was never really mentioned after a while in the show or brought up. Trigger warning for this chapter as it does mention and talk about sexual assault and harassment! Please practice self care when reading!

It’s not the way his hands felt fisted in her hair, or the sound of his grunting in her ear that stuck out to her. 

It was the _taste_. 

He tasted like sea salt, like the ocean. The sour tang of raw fish sat in her mouth for weeks after, no matter how many times she brushed her teeth, scrubbing till her gums _bleed_ because it was the only thing that could cover up the putrid taste he forcefully left behind.

\- 

She doesn’t sleep in the tower. The one and only time she tried ended up with her burning through the blankets, hands simmering in charred fabric. 

Instead, she triple checks the locks, turns on every light, every screen, hides a knife under one pillow, pepper spray under the other, and sits cross legged on the bed. She listens to every noise, every flutter of movement from the hallway, every voice from outside the walls, eyes lit up with a familiar glow. 

She feels watched. She’s learned quickly that there is no privacy here. There are cameras everywhere, she can feel the electric thrum under her skin from their presence. One is in the lamp on the bedside table, another in the handle of the kitchen cabinets. Not to mention the fact that Homelander has x-ray vision and can look anywhere he so pleases. 

These nights, she isn’t Starlight, she’s meek, little Annie, hiding under the covers because her Mommy and Daddy’s yelling was shaking the whole house. 

-

She fills her room with candles and stocks up on air fresheners. Fall scents; apple, cinnamon, pumpkin, bonfires. Scents that remind her of home, scents that take her mind away from oceans and sand and fish. 

-

Dad used to say that things get worse before they get better. She clutched onto that belief when she was a girl. She _needed_ to believe that somehow, someway, things would turn out for the best, that what is right and good will prevail. 

And it did, for a while. 

She met Hughie, sweet and kind Hughie who listened to Billy Joel more than the average person, had odd friends, and sucked at bowling. He listened to her, that day on the park bench, he cared. She never seemed to taste the ocean when he was around. 

And, he lied. He lied right to her face, using her for information, dragging her into his ragtag group of criminals aiming to bring down Vought, bring down the _Seven_. 

Hughie tricked her, just like the Deep.

She hated that he was still so _sincere_ , so _nice_. He lied, yes, but he was earnest in his mission. 

But then Stillwell died, Homelander got a one up, Hughie had to disappear, and she still had to play the role of Starlight. 

Maybe things didn’t get worse before it gets better, maybe things only got worse. 

-

The Deep was sent away, but the sea salt lingered. 

Press conferences, interviews, meetings, public showcases, she could feel eyes on her. Her skin _crawled_ at the attention put on her chest and thighs, the men who leered and remarked on her physique with vulgar comments. She had to fight every instinct to light up and shock them all. 

Men soon got _bolder_ . During team meetings, assistants began brushing up against her, slimy hands grazing her waist, _squeezing_. She would have broken their wrists if not for the steely glare Homelander sent her way. 

‘’You get used to it,’’ Maeve had told her. ‘’Ignoring them becomes second nature.’’ The void in her voice, the cold uncaringness, said otherwise. 

-

Butcher pulled his coat tighter around him as he walked down the hospital corridor. _Jesus_ , someone was paying way too much in air conditioning. 

Hughie was still out cold, and Starlight looked like she would be too soon, if the dark rings under her eyes were any indication. He had left to grab a coffee from the cafeteria, took one sip and chucked the thing out almost immediately. _How the in the fuck could someone screw up a coffee that bad?_ A nurse had eyed him suspiciously over her salad, to which he glared right back. Nosy twat. 

The hospital room was dim, the bulbs above the bed providing more shadows than light. Hughie was, predictably, still unconscious. The doctor had said he shouldn’t be waking for a few more hours anyway. Starlight was curled in the chair pushed closely to the bed, contorted in a way that couldn’t be comfortable, asleep. 

Huh. He would’ve thought she’d stay up, waiting for Hughie. She was stubborn, he’d give her that. But, here she was, out cold. 

He took a deep breath, sitting himself in the other chair as quietly as he could, muscles silently groaning at the relief. First time all day he’s gotten a chance to just sit. _Hell_ , probably the first time all week he’s had a break. Of course all it took was Hughie getting bloody impaled, of _fucking_ course. 

There was a soft noise from the side, catching his attention. It was one of those air fresheners, the timed ones that spray out a mist because _apparently_ it was too hard a job for a person. The smell of a beach filled the room, breezy and airy and _annoying_. 

For a couple of moments, it was quiet, it was _still_. 

Of course, it wouldn’t last for long. _Why the hell would it?_

Starlight shifted in the chair, brows furrowing, a hushed noise falling from her lips. 

He froze, unsure of what to do, and just watched as she twisted around, breathing unevenly. 

She let out a whimper, a broken, heart breaking _whimper_. 

_Well, shit._

He stood, cautiously crossing the room because she may be having some sort of nightmare, but she was still a _supe_ , and could easily blind him. 

‘’Star-’’ He stopped himself, speaking louder. ‘’ _Annie_.’’ 

She flinched, as if shocked, eyes shooting open, a bright gold gleaming dangerously. The same light formed around her hands, the lights and monitors around them flickering. 

_Double shit._

He raised his hands almost instinctively, lowering himself; he didn’t know where she was mentally, and didn’t exactly feel like getting barbequed because she got spooked by his figure. 

‘’Annie, it’s Butcher, Billy Butcher.’’ He said, but he doubted she could hear him over her own gasping, stuttering breaths. “Hey, we’re in the hospital with Hughie, yeah?’’

‘’Bu-Butcher?’’ She forced out his name, hands dimming, but her eyes remained gold. 

‘’Yep, just me. An’ Hughie’s right over there, sleeping like that fucking princess, whatshername?’’ 

She blinked, and suddenly the glow from her eyes was gone, replaced with tears. Her breathing was still off, and her lips quivered like she was gonna start sobbing, but at least he wasn’t in danger of death by electrocution anymore. 

‘’You with me?’’ 

She sniffed. ‘’Uh, yeah, yeah, sorry.’’ Her voice was rough, and she was clearly trying to hide it, swiping at her eyes and avoiding his gaze. 

Well, now it’s awkward. 

He cleared his throat, bringing his hands to his pockets. ‘’That, uh, that happen often?’’

‘’Only every time I fall asleep.’’ She joked mirthlessly, a strained smile on her face. “Um, weird question, uh, do you smell the ocean, or is it just me?’’

He nodded toward the corner. ‘’Yeah, bloody air freshener over there. Keeps scenting the room like a rowdy dog.’’ 

Something darkened in her face, but said nothing. She took Hughie’s hand in hers, keeping her stare on him. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said she looked _scared_. 

Oh. 

_Oh_. 

_That fucking cunt_ . _Pathetic fish dick piece of shit_. 

He remembered her speech from the Capes for Christ expo. He also remembered The Deep’s subsequent public apology to Starlight for his ‘inappropriate’ actions towards her. Hot, unforgiving rage burns in his veins as he begins to understand _why_ the ocean scent triggered her, _why_ she was clutching onto Hughie’s hand so tight her knuckles turned white. 

He ripped the damn air freshener from the wall, ignoring her surprised gasp. Seething, he opened the window, chucking the thing outside without care for where it landed, just that it went _away_. 

Neither said a word as he sat back down, the silence stretching on for a while. 

‘’Aurora.’’ 

‘’What?’’ His brows drew in confusion. 

Annie smirked. ‘’The princess? Sleeping Beauty? Her name’s Aurora.’’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really liked the dynamic between Annie and Butcher in ep 7. I hope we get to see more of it!


	4. day four - caged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it only took me three days to fall behind, whoops! Sorry! Hope this Kimiko (and Frenchie) centered one shot will make up for it! Thank you for the wonderful comments and I promise to try to do all 31 prompts/days, just perhaps not within the time limit lol. 
> 
> Thank you all again and I hope you guys enjoy! :)

Today, so far, has been good. She spent the morning out with Frenchie on a supply run that turned into a stroll through the city, taking the long way back to their hideout even though they knew Butcher would chew them out for it later. But the way her shoulder brushed Frenchie’s, his nonsensical muttering in her ear about how the grocery store did not have the one ingredient he needed, the cool breeze against her cheek, made it worth the inevitable scolding. 

She should have known the other shoe would drop. 

They were two blocks away when it started drizzling. She looked up when she felt a drop on her nose, and saw the sky that was blue only a couple of hours ago was now a dark, foreboding grey that promised more than just drizzle. She reached for Frenchie’s hand the same time he reached for her’s, sprinting quickly the rest of the way to avoid the oncoming downpour. 

She could hear voices echoing up the stairs, loud and brash. M.M. and Butcher were arguing.

Again. Great. 

‘’Never a dull day, huh, mon coeur?’’ Frenchie asked, amused, if the slight quirk of his lips is anything to go by. She grins back at him, unable not to. His little smirk always manages to draw out her own. 

She heads down the stairs first, and freezes. 

She doesn’t notice M.M.’s deep scowl, matching the glower on Butcher’s. She doesn’t notice the tiny, white bulldog off in the corner, being pet by Hughie. She doesn’t notice Frenchie bumping into her back, uttering her name with concern.

She does notice the  _ cage _ . 

It’s a small thing, thin metal bars and a crooked lock, with some sort of blue blanket folded up in it. It  _ shouldn’t  _ cause her heart to race, it  _ shouldn’t  _ force the air from her lungs, it  _ shouldn’t  _ bring tears to her eyes. 

_ But it does.  _

She’s supposed to be  _ safe  _ here. Hughie, M.M.,  _ Frenchie _ , they saved her. The cage, _ that prison _ , doesn’t belong here. 

There’s a commotion around her, a clamor of panicked voices, and it’s too much. 

She won’t go back in that cage. 

_ The men on the boat are cruel creatures. They laugh and jeer over bottles of liquor and canned food that can’t taste good. Card games can only keep their drunken attention for so long before boredom strikes. The stalk around the cage, eyeing her as a lion would their prey. Feet fly out, kicking the bars, shaking her confines. One man taunts her with the keys, hung just out of reach with a saccharine, feral grin. She doesn’t scream, doesn’t make a single noise, and that only eggs them on. She can still see their eyes, hear their sadistic glee -  _

‘’Kimiko!’’ 

She flinches, and jumps into a crouch on instinct, a low, warning growl coming from deep in her throat. Her hands tremble with adrenaline and fear, ready to pounce. Except -

She’s not on the boat. 

She’s in their familiar, grimy, basement. The boys, _ her boys _ , form a loose circle around her, varying degrees of unease on their faces. She swallows heavily, blinking in a useless attempt to rid herself of the tears. No one moves. 

‘’Mon coeur,’’ Frenchie’s eyes are wet too. His voice is barely a whisper, distressed but soft. She watches him carefully as he makes slow movements, coming down to his knees before her. ‘’What startled you?’’ He sounds wistful, knowing she won’t, can’t answer like Hughie or M.M. would. 

She looks over his shoulder, right at the cage. She can’t seem to tear her gaze away, the very sight of it dragging her back down again, back to the  _ men with the evil laughs and rough hands  _ \- 

‘’Mon coeur, breathe.’’

Hands are on her face, cupping her cheeks like she’s made of glass, something to be careful with. These hands are rough in all the right places, calloused and scarred in ways she’s become familiar with. 

‘’Look at me, yeah? Eyes on me, please.’’ Frenchie pleads. His eyes locked with her’s, filled with relief and grim realization. He understands. He always does. 

She opens her mouth, doesn’t quite know what she’s trying to accomplish, but all that comes out is a strained, hoarse  _ whimper _ . Frenchie  _ gets it _ , she won’t have to sit here, playing charades to tell them about one of her worst fears. His thumbs catch the tears that begin to fall, his touch soothing against her cheek. 

‘’Oh, mon ange,’’ He sounds devastated, _ for her _ , only furthering the lump in her throat. ‘’I promise, you will  _ never  _ be caged again. I swear it, mon coeur.’’ 

The sincerity and promise in his tone, the earnest in his hold, does her in. She hasn’t felt this sort of kindness in years, and it feels like something breaks in her. A choked sob escapes her, no longer having the energy to hold it back. It’s followed by another, and another, until she’s wailing almost soundlessly into Frenchie’s shoulder. His arms wrap around her back without much pressure, always giving her the opportunity to escape, always giving her a choice. 

She cries harder. 

-

Kimiko doesn’t remember falling asleep. She remembers a lot of crying, and hushed, French reassurances that she didn’t quite fully understand, but instilled a feeling of security nonetheless. 

-

When she wakes up, the cage is nowhere to be seen. 

She smiles over the crepes she and Frenchie make. Her cheeks crinkle slightly from dried tears, and there’s an ache behind her eyes, but she can’t help the laughter, watching Hughie chase the bulldog, Terror, she learned, around, trying and failing to get his shoe back. 


	5. day five - rescue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again! So, this chapter is a kind of au of the last ep, and I also just wanted an excuse to write Ryan meeting Butcher and the others :)

He liked to read. 

A lot. 

The bookshelf in his bedroom was crowded, books spilling onto the floor in haphazard piles that Mom would often trip over in the mornings when she comes to wake him up. Many were textbooks, factual accounts of space and the planets, slotted next to fictional paperbacks about young wizards and heroes with magical powers that save the day. His favorite story, however, was the one Mom would tell him every night before bed. 

He would curl into her side, blankets tucked around them as she recounted tales about a heroic man named Sir William. This man had no powers except for his quick wits and sharp tongue, able to outsmart any villain who dare cross him. He is rough, his Mom would say, but kind. His heart is bigger than he lets on, especially when it comes to his canine companion, a bulky, slobbering bulldog that he rescued from the clutches of the street strays. He could stay awake for hours, listening to the adventures of Sir William, and the evil doers he slayed. Mom wouldn’t let him, of course, every night tucking the blankets around him with a wavering grin and red eyes. 

-

He has a Dad. Who has  _ superpowers _ . And, apparently, he does too. 

His Dad comes by nearly every day. He wears the same suit, same cape, same steely grin and hard voice. 

_ I’m your Dad, Ryan.  _

_ I’ll always be here for you, Ryan.  _

_ We can be a family, Ryan.  _

Mom loses her shine when he comes around. She crosses her arms, frowning in a way that makes something twist uncomfortably in him. 

But, his Dad is so nice. He got him a baseball glove and ball, showed him the lasers that can come from his eyes, and how he can fly above the clouds without breaking a sweat. He tells himself he enjoys the time he spends with his Dad. He tells himself that it doesn’t matter that his Dad’s smile is stiff when reading with him, or that he has to leave whenever Ryan wants to build Lego’s with him. 

-

His Mom is a liar. 

He leaves with his Dad, her wails echoing in his ears as they fly away. 

-

New York City is like nothing he has ever seen before. It’s so  _ big _ , the people are crowding the sidewalks and streets, buses and trucks honking and rumbling down the asphalt. The skyscrapers loom over him, just looking up at them is making him dizzy. 

It’s also  _ loud _ . Almost unbearably so. At home, the loudest thing he had to worry about was the annoying raven that made a nest by his bedroom window. Now, there’s everything. Shouts, alarms, honks, noise, just pure noise that makes him want to claw at his ears because it  _ hurts _ . 

It dulls barely when Dad brings him to a sleek tower, symbolized with the word  _ Vought _ . Dad says this is his new home, here with him and Stormfront. They’ll be a family. 

_ Unstoppable _ , he says. 

He just nods. 

-

‘’Can you tell me a story?’’ 

Stormfront pauses in the doorway of what is his new bedroom. It’s much larger than his old one, filled with windows and screens, all the technology his Mom could never get for him. His Dad’s merchandise fills the shelves, dolls and figurines, comics, even the lamp beside his bed has his Dad’s face on the shade. 

There are no Lego’s, or books. Stormfront had said he didn’t need them, that he was too old for them. 

She walks back towards his bed. She’s smiling, but it’s sharp and wrong, out of place on her face. ‘’Of course, buddy.’’

She tells him about a superhero named Liberty, someone strong who fought anyone who questioned her power. She saved those who deserved it, and punished those who didn’t. She cared for those like her, Stormfront said. 

He didn’t say how Liberty sounded a lot like the villains Sir William would fight. 

-

He was in his room when an alarm sounded throughout the tower. It was blaring, sending pain through his ears. He tried to cover them, block out the noise, but it was just too loud. 

Jumping from his bed, he ran to his closed door that he could sworn was open when he went to sleep. He turned the knob. 

Nothing. It was locked. 

He was trapped here, and the alarm was so overwhelming, and he wants his Mom so  _ badly  _ -

His eyes burned  _ red _ , and suddenly the door was gone, in its place, a smoldering, warped pile of metal and wood. 

Oh yeah. He has  _ superpowers _ . 

He steps over the mess, tiptoes out of the apartment and into the hallway. He doesn’t see Dad or Stormfront, he doesn’t see  _ anyone _ . He runs around until he reaches an elevator, and figures this is his best chance out of here, since he hasn’t exactly mastered the whole flying thing yet. 

The doors slide open, and it's empty, thankfully. The alarm is still blaring, lights flashing inside. His head’s beginning to ache, stomach swirling dangerously, and the motion of the elevator is not helping. He had pressed the button for the first floor, nearly cracking it with his uncontrolled strength, but it stops abruptly, the number  _ 43  _ lighting up the screen above the doors. 

There is shuffling from the other side, shouting, and then something  _ slams  _ into the doors, shaking the whole elevator. He falls to the ground, backing into the corner. The doors open with a groan and - 

There’s a dog. Well, there’s also someone unconscious on the floor, and another man standing, panting heavily, but the dog is what catches his attention first. It’s a bulldog with a studded collar, looking exactly like the one his Mom would tell him stories of, and for a brief moment, he thinks Sir William has come to save him.

‘’Oh, you’ve got to be fucking  _ kidding  _ me.’’ 

The man looks pissed off. And familiar, but he can’t place him. He sounds different, an accent he hasn’t heard before. Ryan thinks he should be scared, should be calling for his Dad and Stormfront, but… he doesn’t. 

The dog barks, lumbering into the elevator and begins slobbering over his hands, nudging his stout head under his fingers. 

He’s never petted a dog before. He’s never even  _ seen  _ a dog before. The fur is coarse, stiff, but nice. He’s doing something right, because the dog’s foot is thumping against the floor. He’s pretty sure that’s a good sign. 

‘’Oi, Ryan, right? Come on, we gotta get out of here.’’ The man’s eyes are wide, panicked, inching closer to the elevator. He can barely hear him over the alarm, but did he say Ryan?

‘’How do you know my name? W-Who are you?’’ 

‘’Name’s Billy Butcher, an’ I know your Mum, alright? Come with me, and I can keep you safe.’’ The man, Billy, reaches a hand out to him.

_ He knows his Mom.  _

His Mom lied to him his entire life. But he  _ really misses her.  _

Ryan takes his hand the same time a security guard turns the corner. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun dun! This will be continued in the next chapter using the prompt from day six! 
> 
> Also, if anyone was confused, the scene at the end takes place during Hughie's rescue of Annie and her Mom, just with the idea that Butcher was with him, and Ryan was already at the tower having left his Mom with Homelander and Stormfront.


	6. day six - ''no more''

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhhhhh I am SO SORRY for the extreme lateness of this chapter, thank you guys for being patient,,, I had more trouble writing this than I thought I would, so let me know what you guys think :)
> 
> Also, DAMN THAT FINALE. I'll write about it in the notes at the end, so there will be spoilers down there, but no spoilers in this chapter!

The van may be idling, but M.M. certainly was  _ not _ . 

He was parked just a few blocks away from Vought tower, out of view from security cameras, hidden away neatly in an alley behind a sushi place, if the rancid smell coming from the dumpster was anything to go by. He tapped his foot anxiously, drumming his fingers against the wheel in the same pattern. 

_ 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3, 1, 2, 3…  _

They were at Mallory’s home, watching over Lamplighter and a recovering Hughie when they saw the news. 

Starlight was exposed. Hughie, understandably, flipped out. The kid was ready to rush out right then and there to Vought. His face told M.M. everything he needed to know, the pure, unadulterated terror that took over his features was recognizable. 

It was the same look Butcher had when Becca disappeared. 

He had probably broken many traffic laws to get to Vought, but the way Lamplighter described Vought’s ‘interrogation’ methods only made him press on the gas. Butcher told him to stay in the van while him and Hughie used Lamplighter to sneak in and get Starlight. 

It’s been nearly thirty minutes of radio silence. He’s normally not this worried; he knows that they can handle themselves, and Butcher has a knack for escaping inescapable situations, but now they’re literally in the lion’s den. If they’re caught, they’re  _ dead _ , and the more time passes, the more realistic that option becomes. 

He’s lost enough people in this life, he doesn’t wanna add any more to that list. 

He’s  _ this  _ close to calling Frenchie to send Kimiko their way for backup when there’s a thump against the van, and the side door is being slid open roughly. His gun is out in seconds, practiced fingers tensed on the trigger. 

Hughie stands there, Annie behind him, and a woman he doesn’t recognize clutching onto her hand with a terrified expression.

M.M. huffs, lowering the weapon. ‘’About damn time, kid.’’ 

Hughie scoffs. “Good to see you, too.’’ He climbed in, the two women following him onto the middle row of seats. Annie sends him a short smile, which he returns, but he wouldn’t let himself relax just yet. ‘’Where’s Butcher? And Lamplighter?’’

‘’Don’t be mad - ‘’

‘’Damnit Hughie, what did you  _ do _ ?’’

‘’I didn’t do anything, first of all,’’ Hughie leaned over the middle console. M.M. could see sweat on his pinched brow. ‘’Lamplighter decided torching himself in the middle of the tower would be a good idea, which caught the attention of  _ many  _ security guards  _ and  _ Black Noir. We lost Butcher in the chaos, but I  _ swear _ , I saw him following us out.’’

M.M. rubbed at his eyes tiredly. ‘’Alright, I’ll give it five minutes, but then we gotta get out of here. I don’t trust this.’’ 

Hughie nodded, falling back into the seat, wincing. M.M. eyed him through the rearview mirror. 

_ Damnit _ . His stitches. 

‘’Annie, check his stitches, would you?’’ 

‘’What? No, I’m fine - ‘’ 

A hard  _ bang  _ on the outside of the van, followed by the telltale scratching of claws on metal interrupted Hughie’s weak protests. Annie shot him a questioning look, eyes glowing, waiting for his say so. 

He nodded, hand back on the gun. She climbed over the seats to the open back row, throwing open the back doors - 

M.M. is not easily surprised, but he can say safely that the sight of Billy Butcher holding a  _ child  _ securely in his arms rendered him speechless for a good couple of seconds. 

“What the absolute  _ fuck _ ?”

-

“Where are we going?” Ryan’s voice was small in his ear, tiny limbs wrapped around him like a clingy octopus. 

Except, you know, this octopus was Homelander’s son. Homelander’s son, whom he just stole from Vought tower.  _ Homelander’s son who has Becca’s nose, and Becca’s calm tone _ \- 

Man, M.M.’s gonna be  _ pissed _ . 

“Got some friends around here,” He pants. There’s a haze of agony clouding his head, and he tries to remember where they parked the van. 

“You’re bleeding.” Ryan says, and he thinks the boy is going into shock. He’s shaking like a leaf, his breaths coming out in staggered exhales. Butcher’s never been good with kids, hell, the last time he even held a kid it was to use it’s bloody laser eyes as a weapon. And this kid, Ryan, he’s a  _ supe _ , he’s got Homelander’s blood in his veins. 

He’s Becca’s son. 

“Really? Couldn’t tell.” He attempts a light hearted tone, but it comes out more strangled, and seems to only serve to worry the kid more. He turns the corner of an alleyway and sees the van. Terror barks, scratching at the doors as he knocks. He really hopes M.M. in all his neurotic glory left a first aid kit in there because he’s fairly certain the bullet graze to his shoulder is gonna need stitches. 

‘’What the absolute  _ fuck _ ?’’ 

Yep, M.M. is pissed.

-

Billy Butcher has odd friends, he decides. Odd friends who use bad words and don’t smile. 

Well, except Annie. She kept his attention during the car ride, speaking to him in warm tones that reminded him of Mom, while the scrawny one, Hughie, bandaged Billy’s arm. Her hands  _ glow _ , she showed him. She can spout light from her fingers like he can shoot beams from his eyes, and having someone like him there with Billy soothes the anxious part of him that says  _ this is a trap _ .

Billy brings him to a pawn shop, and leads him down stairs that look on the verge of collapsing. The walls are grimy and covered in cracking spray paint, and there’s a pungent smell of nicotine, but he feels safer here than he ever did at Vought. It’s much quieter down here, under the city and away from prying eyes. They all go off in different directions in the basement, and he doesn’t quite know what to do except follow Billy. 

The man stops at a lumpy couch, falling onto it with a heavy sigh, just like his Mom would do after a long day. Ryan studies him for a moment, and then moves to sit on the other end in silence. 

Billy has lines around his eyes, crinkles along his lips, but they don’t look like ones from smiling or laughing, he notes. They’re from exhaustion, from weariness. The same ones he’s seen on soldiers in his history textbook back home. 

‘’How do you know my Mom?’’

Billy’s lips twitch. ‘’Kid, it’s a long story.’’

He wilts. Those are just more  _ fillers _ , more words that keep him in the dark. They’re not lies, but they’re not the truth either. No one is giving him a straight answer, no one is being honest and it’s making his heart race. Mom’s lied to him, Dad and Stormfront hide everything behind misleading grins and placations, and now Billy won’t say anything. 

He’s had enough. 

‘’ _ No _ .’’ He stands from the couch, hands shaking in curled fists. ‘’No more! I just want to know what’s going on, and no one is telling me anything! My home is a lie, my Dad is a superhero but he doesn’t  _ act  _ like one. He won’t tell me anything, Stormfront won’t tell me anything, and you won’t either! I just wanna know  _ the goddamn truth _ !’’ 

He’s heaving by the end, hot tears streaking his cheeks. Billy just stares, the lines deeper than they were before. 

‘’You are your Mother’s son, ain’t ya?’’ 

‘’But how do you know that?’’ His voice cracks, and he wipes his watery eyes with his sleeve. That’s still not an  _ answer _ , it’s just words. 

Billy pats the cushion next to him. ‘’Sit.’’

He does, sitting closer than before. 

‘’I’m her husband.’’ Billy says, and Ryan freezes. 

_ What? _ His Mom has never once mentioned a husband. Then again, she never mentioned his Dad either. She never spoke about life before him, or how he came to be. It was always the same  _ You’re my little miracle _ , and  _ It’s just us two against the world _ . 

Billy must have seen the confusion on his face, and continued. ‘’We were married a while, and it was good. Best time of me life, honestly. But, then, well… Homelander, your Dad, hurt her. He hurt her real bad, and then she had you.’’

Billy paused. His shoulders were slumped, like just getting the words out was weighing on him. 

‘’I didn’t know. She just… disappeared. But, she did it to keep you safe.’’

Ryan frowned. ‘’But she  _ lied  _ to me.’’ 

‘’Sometimes, lying is the best thing you can do. She did what she thought would keep you from danger.’’

‘’Danger?’’ How could he be in danger? 

‘’Your Dad, he’s, he’s not a good man, Ryan. Neither is Stormfront.’’ 

He bit his lip. He knew his Dad and Stormfront were off, but he didn’t think they were evil. They hurt his Mom, took her away from her husband. 

‘’I don’t wanna go back to my Dad.’’ He wrapped his arms around himself, wishing they were his Mom’s. Billy lips quirk into something that’s on the verge of being a smile. 

‘’That’s good, because I wouldn’t let you go back to that cunt anyway.’’ 

‘’That’s a bad word!’’ 

-

Billy Butcher is an odd man who curses and doesn’t smile. He’s rough and mean; he yells at his friends and grumbles in a way that reminded him of Oscar the Grouch. 

But his Mom saw something kind in him, so maybe he can too. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was the beginning of this a cop out from writing an action scene? yes, yes it was. I don't know how I feel about the dialogue, but I didn't want to wait any longer to post. 
> 
> !SPOILERS FOR 2X08!
> 
> OMG I CRIED! Becca.... deserved better! I definitely need to write something were she is alive and with Billy and the boys and being fluffy! I loved those little scenes of her with the Boys, they all loved her it was so cute! Ryan siding with Billy over Homelander watered my crops, cleared my acne, healed my soul! I definitely hope that they'll be more scenes in the future of Billy and Ryan!


	7. day seven - carry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Again, I'm sorry about the lateness! This chapter is set after 2x08, so spoilers are here! Hope you enjoy! :)

The kid won’t let go of him.

_ ‘’Promise me…’’  _

He doesn’t really wanna let go either. 

The woods are still, unnervingly still. The only sound he can hear is the crunch of dry leaves and dirt under his feet. He doesn’t think about the fact that Ryan probably hears more than the leaves, and wonders briefly if he can still hear Stormfront’s German ramblings.

Ryan shivers as the wind picks up. He shifts the kid in his arms, tucking him in closer to protect him from the chill. He has no idea if he’s doing any of this right, god knows he didn’t have the best examples of this kind of thing growing up. Whenever his Dad didn’t pay the heating and the house grew cold, he would push them away with a disgusted scowl that shouldn’t have been on the face of a Father. He won’t do that to Ryan. 

Becca wouldn’t want him to.

Ryan’s nose is cold, pressed against his collarbone. He’s still crying, weeping softly through little huffs. Butcher’s never been a soother, but he thinks he can try for the kid. He rubs his hand along Ryan’s upper back, like he’s seen M.M. do for his daughter. 

He can see the edge of the tree line, and the opening of the clearing. The wrecked car is still there, but now it’s not the only one. It looks like a bomb went off. There’s a haze of smoke in the air, metal and debris are scattered around in melted, twisted heaps. His heart jumps in his chest because he doesn’t see any of the others, but also doesn’t see any bodies, and he doesn’t quite know if that’s a good thing or not. 

Ryan lifts his head meekly from where he had buried it in his shoulder, watery eyes looking around the scene. He nearly drops him when he flinches abruptly, swiveling his head around and staring at the trees with fear. 

‘’What is it, kid? What do you hear?’’ 

‘’F-Footsteps, coming t-toward us.’’ Ryan whispered, and Butcher could feel the tremors coming from the boy. He was hunching into himself, as if trying to hide. He was  _ scared _ , and somehow trusted him, Billy Butcher of all people, to protect him. 

He wouldn’t let Becca down. 

He moved to crouch behind the overturned car, reaching for the gun in his belt. He could hear the footsteps now, someone coming closer with heavy footfalls. Ryan stayed silent, but Butcher knew it was a front. The boy clutched at his jacket, hiding his face in his shoulder once more. 

‘’Yo, Butcher!’’

He let out a breath of relief. It was just M.M. He glances over the top of the car, seeing the man stalking closer, lowering his weapon when he caught sight of them, relief covering his face. He stood, but the movement jostled Ryan, and he whimpered into his jacket. 

‘’Hey, hey, kid, it’s alright, you’re okay. It’s just my friend, is all.’’ He tried to calm him, keeping his voice soft and holding him closer. The action briefly reminded him of when he would comfort Lenny on dark, cold nights. His eyes burned with unshed tears, and he pushed the thought away. 

‘’Safe?’’ Ryan’s voice was so  _ small  _ and afraid, it made something angry ignited in him. It was unfair, so  _ goddamn  _ unfair. He said right from the start, this kid didn’t deserve this  _ shit  _ just because his Father is Homelander. But here he is, right in the  _ fucking  _ middle of it. 

‘’Yeah, you’re safe now.’’

The kid still won’t let go of him.

-

Mallory took one look at them and the kid, and said they could stay at her home for the time being, while they sorted things out with Vought and the CIA. To Butcher, it felt strangely of pity, but the others looked grateful to be able to sleep somewhere that wasn’t a dirty basement, so he stayed quiet. 

Ryan simply continued to cling to him. Both M.M and Frenchie had given him worried looks over Ryan’s head. He shrugged them off. He didn’t want to talk about it, not yet, not when it was still so raw and fresh, like an open wound in his head.

Hughie and Annie had gone upstairs to one of the guestrooms a while ago, looking as tired as he felt. M.M. collapsed into a plushy armchair while Frenchie and Kimiko had taken one of the two couches, sleeping and sitting close,  _ the bloody lovebirds _ . He had tried to sit Ryan down on the other couch when he yawned, he had to be exhausted at this point; but with all the strength and desperation of a superpowered kid, he clutched onto him. 

‘’Okay, alright, I got the point.’’ He muttered without heat, hefting the boy back into his arms. Ryan looked on the verge of falling asleep, eyes drooping and breathing slowing down, but he won’t  _ lay  _ down. 

Stubborn, just like Becca. 

M.M. snorted. 

‘’Oh, this amuses you, does it?’’ 

‘’Without a  _ doubt _ .’’


	8. day eight - isolation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't really know what this is except for word vomit in which Maeve gets friends, cause she deserves it <3

Vought Tower is never completely empty. 

There is always someone, supe or not, bustling around the halls or working in the various offices. Lights are kept on, phones and pagers buzz and ring nonstop, people talking and arguing and yelling, filling every space and cranny with noise and turbulent life. 

Yet, her times in the tower are the times she has felt most alone. She’s surrounded by people, by other superheroes, but she’s startlingly and strikingly alone. 

-

Queen Maeve is powerful. Queen Maeve is a cold woman who glares icily at olive branches reached out to her from people like Starlight, naive and hopeful with a glint of  _ good  _ in her eyes that remind her too much of  _ her _ , years ago, before Vought, before Homelander, could beat that out of her. 

Maggie Shaw is not powerful. Maggie Shaw hides behind a bottle and harsh remarks, finds solace in a woman who she doesn’t deserve, and isolates herself so she’s not the one who is left behind. 

-

Vought recruited her right out of high school, without much of a choice on her part. She came home to her bags packed, and her Dad holding her passport. She flew out the next day on an empty jet, save for her and a publicist who spent the flight on her tablet. 

Looking back on it, this is probably when that seed of seclusion was planted. 

Stillwell gave her the tour of the tower, and then Homelander showed her the ropes. 

_ ‘’I’m number one around here, you know… I just wanna know how  _ willing _ you are to  _ follow _ orders…’’ _

On particularly bad nights, she could still feel his hands bruising her hips and wrists. She’s never bruised like that before. 

-

She met Elena at a coffee shop on the edge of the city, as far away from Vought she could get before whatever asshole tracking her chip got suspicious. Her hair was hidden under a baseball cap, sunglasses covering most of her face. She sat in a corner booth, nursing a sugary coffee drink that she wouldn’t be caught dead holding back at Vought. 

‘’Hi, I’m sorry, everywhere else is full, would it be alright if I sat here?’’ She stood there, dark hair under a maroon beanie, tote bag over her shoulder, and coffee in hand. Her voice held an element of kindness she has yet to encounter since becoming ‘Queen Maeve’, and she found herself nodding without realizing. 

She sat across from her, hanging her bag from the chair, and setting her drink down on the greasy table. Maeve watched the way she removed her beanie, brushing her hair over her shoulder with practiced ease. ‘’I’m Elena, by the way.’’ 

It took a second for Maeve to realize that this was the part where she’s supposed to introduce herself. She didn’t realize how accustomed she’s become to strangers knowing her name immediately. 

‘’Uh, Maggie. My name’s Maggie.’’ The once familiar name, the name her Mother gave her, sits uncomfortable on her tongue. No one has called her that in a long time. 

Elena smiles. It’s not the serrated grin Homelander shoots her, or the practiced superficial smirk Stillwell has when telling her she has to show more skin to get more points. 

Elena’s smile is small, unintimidating. There is no razor edge, or underlying want. It’s simply there. 

-

In tenth grade, her English class had to read  _ Romeo and Juliet _ . Her teacher was manic about the quote that said something along the lines of delights and endings being violent. She never quite understood that, until she became Vought property. 

She became a being of violence. Her skin is like steel, her bones as hard as diamond. She can ground concrete into dust with just her fingers, and lift trucks above her head. When she was younger, she loved it. She could bring down trees in her backyard, dent the family car without even trying; her Mom and Dad praised her, worked her harder. 

She hates it now. She wants this inhuman strength, this violence and danger in her blood,  _ gone _ . She wants to be able to come home to Elena, lay out on the couch, and scratch their cat between the ears without having to worry about the fact that she can crush it’s skull. 

The quote is making a little more sense now. 

-

Elena is gone, and it’s her own fault. 

It always is. 

But, it’s better for her to be alone. When she’s alone, she can’t hurt anyone but herself. 

-

Annie won’t leave her the fuck alone. She’s never had this issue before. People are  _ scared  _ of her, people will up and run when she screams and drinks, just as she wants them to. But Annie fucking January doesn’t seem to understand the basic concept of  _ leave me alone _ . 

Maeve doesn’t know if that makes her incredibly stupid, or incredibly smart. 

-

Annie introduces her to her little group of criminals, and the boyfriend who looks like a twink. The English guy doesn’t seem to care much for her, neither does the guy who calls himself Mother’s Milk, but the Frenchman and the Female seem to find an attachment to her. 

The Female, Kimiko, she learns, was there when they beat the shit out of Stormfront. Annie and the twink (she refuses to call him Hughie) tell her that she was taken from her home by Vought, and injected with V, giving her strength and inability to die. She doesn’t talk, and the Frenchman talks too much in her place. Twink says there is rarely one without the other. 

She’s at Annie’s new apartment, having somehow been roped into helping furnish it. Twink is there, as well as Kimiko and the Frenchman. A small part of her feels like an outsider, feels like she should leave and go back to her own empty apartment. 

There’s a soft tap on her shoulder. She turns, and Kimiko stands there, the Frenchman right behind her. She looks almost nervous, shifting on her feet, and nothing like the person who ripped into Stormfront’s head. Her hands fly around in calculated movements, but it’s not any sign language she’s familiar with. 

‘’She’s asking if you would like to come with us to get some pizza, eh? Annie said there is a place down the block.’’ The Frenchman translates, looking at her with the same hopeful expression. 

They  _ want  _ her to come with them, she realizes. They want her company, walking a few blocks to order pizza. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, but not an unwelcome one. 

She finds herself nodding. 


	9. day nine - alt prompt - stoic whumpee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: i'm definitely going to finish this before the end of october  
> college: HA you thought   
> me: but -   
> college: *midterms, essays, assignments*  
> me: shit 
> 
> Hope this makes up for the wait! It's kind of an AU of 2x08 in which Becca isn't the one who gets hit by Ryan's laser eyes. Also kind of a response to lupasolitaria's comment request!

His chest hurt. 

Scratch that,  _ everything  _ hurt. Pain radiated through his skin, reaching every nerve, every bone. His joints protested each step he took, each muscle he used. It was an ache that persisted, a pounding agony that was screaming at him to just  _ collapse  _ and stop. 

_Fucking Storm-bitch_ _and her fucking supe powers_ -

Then those same hands are wrapped around Becca’s throat, eyes pulsing a dangerous purple, and he’s helpless, hitting her, screaming,  _ cursing _ ; he just got her back and he refuses to lose her again. 

He can hear the kid crying in the background, a whining pleading for him to help his Mom, but Becca’s strained gasping drowns out anything else, and he doesn’t pay attention to the kid. 

He probably should have. 

Becca’s eyes are fluttering, her cheeks are losing color, and Stormcunt’s face is twisted up into a razor sharp, sadistic grin.

‘’I like to see the light go out.’’ 

A searing, burning,  _ red  _ overwhelms his vision, accompanied by a harsh cry, and he’s knocked to the ground once more. 

-

Her sight came back in pieces. 

First, it was the trees above her, a blurry mixture of fading greens and light browns. She shivered, cold dirt under her back, bark and roots digging into her back.

Second, it was her son, a couple feet away and sobbing out hushed apologies, for what, she didn’t know, and was scared to find out. She’s never heard him cry like that before.

Third, it was the mangled, charred corpse of Stormfront. She looked more like a piece of firewood than a human, her limbs gone, skin blackened and singed beyond repair. 

Lastly, it was Billy. Her husband lay not that far from her, unmoving, but wheezing a terrible sound. The leaves around him are coated in red.

‘’ _ Billy _ !’’ His name comes out in a hoarse yelp. She crawls frantically, sticks and leaves scratching her hands, and - 

_ Oh god.  _

There’s so much blood,  _ everywhere _ . It covers his chest, stains his skin, and sticks to his beard. The metallic stench burns in her nostrils. Her hands flutter about, she knows she should be putting pressure on the wounds, but she doesn’t even know where the wound  _ begins _ . 

‘’Billy,’’ She croaks. His eyes find her’s slowly, and his lips quirk into a small smile that rips a sob from her chest. How can he look at her like  _ that,  _ like he did years ago, when she was dressed in white and standing with him at an altar, when he’s bleeding out in front of her?

‘’I’m alright, love.’’ He lies. His voice shakes, and he tries to lift his hand, crimson stained fingers barely brushing against her cheek before falling back down. 

She only cries harder. ‘’You’re a shit liar.’’ 

He huffed something akin to a laugh, but morphs into a distressed groan. ‘’Only, only with you.’’

There was blood on his teeth.

‘’ _ I didn’t mean to, Mommy, I’m sorry, I’m sorry _ .’’

-

If he had a nickel for every time he’s woken up somewhere he didn’t recognize, he would definitely have more than one nickel. At least five, if his math is correct. 

Well, six now. 

It was definitely a hospital room, if the IV in his hand and itchy blankets tucked around him were anything to go by. He could feel thick bandages wrapped around his front, tight and uncomfortable. With every breath, there was a familiar tugging sensation of stitches, smarting pain across his chest.

_ Jesus, what happened? _

He tried to open his eyes, but his brain wouldn’t cooperate, wouldn’t respond through the foggy confusion lining his head and blocking his thoughts. Fucking pain meds. He hated the damn things and how his body reacted to them. He would rather suffer in silence than let some narcotic decide when he sleeps and wakes. 

‘’William?’’ 

He knew that voice. It was faint, accented with a clear exhaustion. He tried to speak, but all that seemed to come out was a dry moan.  _ Damnit _ . He’s had enough of this; his hand with the IV twitches, and then  _ yanks _ , he wants the thing out of him, and he’s near successful when something stops him. Bony fingers grabbing his own, more wrapping around his wrist, holding it in place. 

‘’Stop it,’’ The same voice says, closer now. ‘’You’re okay.’’ 

He is most definitely not okay, and let's whoever know it by jerking his middle finger on his other hand. 

They scoff, but it lacks malice. ‘’You’re incorrigible.’’ 

_ Mallory _ . 

He fought against the brain fog to open his eyes. She sat to his right, looking down at him with bleary eyes. Her hair was down and ruffled, yet she somehow kept her presentability. ‘’If I let go, are you going to leave the needle alone?’’

He managed a smirk. ‘’Maybe, I haven’t decided yet.’’ 

She sighed, leaning back into the chair, but said nothing. He glanced around the dark room; it was sparse of furniture save for chairs that were probably pulled from the waiting room, and a wheeled cart of bandages and other medical supplies that he doesn’t know the names for. There was a shuffling to his left, and was able to turn his head enough to see another chair, occupied by Becca, her son curled on her lap. 

_ A bloody and bruised Stormfront, electrical hands around his wife’s throat, the stink of blood and sweat, a child’s broken cries -  _

Erratic beeping broke the silence, filling the room, followed by heavy breathing that he didn’t realize was his  _ own  _ until Mallory gripped his shoulder, speaking to him hurriedly. ‘’Hey, it’s alright.’’

He shook his head frantically. ‘’Bec, Becca - ‘’

‘’Is right there, she’s right  _ there _ , sleeping, and waiting for you to wake up.’’ Mallory says softly, pointing to his sleeping wife and her dozing son. ‘’They’re all okay, everyone is safe, Billy. It’s okay.’’ 

_ Everyone is safe _ . No one has been safe for eight  _ fucking  _ years. No one has been safe since a group of Nazi  _ assholes  _ decided to play God with genes and compound V and create fucking supes. It’s never been safe, not for him, not for Becca or Ryan. The only people who have the luxury of safety are those dead and buried. ‘’No, no, no - ‘’

‘’ _ Yes _ .’’ Mallory’s no longer soft, her voice has taken on an edge of steel. ‘’Billy, they’re safe. Look at them, they’re here, they’re breathing, it’s all okay.’’ 

They’re in fresh clothes, any trace of grime or blood is gone. Becca’s neck is ringed with horrifying purples and blues, there’s a bandage stuck to her forehead, and her hands are clutching Ryan close, as if he’ll disappear the moment she lets go. The boy is pale, and the purple lining his eyes matches his Mother’s. He focuses on their breathing, watching the slow but prominent up and down movements of their chests. They’re breathing, Becca’s breathing. 

He’s been waiting for that sight for nearly eight years. 

‘’She’s safe?’’ His voice does not sound like his own. It cracks and crumbles without his permission. 

‘’Yes, she’s safe.’’ The finality in Mallory’s tone is a crushing relief. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how much of this fits the prompt but oh well lol


	10. day ten - blood loss & blood trail

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! I just want to thank you all so much for the kudos and comments! It really makes me happy that people are actually enjoying my works! :) You guys are the best! 
> 
> Here some Annie whump, and possible trigger warning for self harm/self destructive tendencies for Annie. Practice self care when reading and after!

She’s not used to the concept of bleeding. Sure, she’s seen others bleed. Her classmates would scrape their knees after a nasty fall, or her Mom would get distracted cutting fruit for lunch and nick her pinky for the third time. But she herself would never bleed from such trivial things. Her blood stayed stubbornly where it was, beneath skin that refused to injure. 

It used to be something she was proud of, showing it off to her friends. It was a neat trick, a game they could play during recess.  _ Could little Annie bleed? _ They would throw rocks, poke her with sticks, trying to find something that could penetrate her flesh. At least, until her teacher found out and forbade it, despite her skin remaining smooth and unmarred. 

The novelty soon grew old. It was such an odd thing to be jealous of, the simple act of bleeding. Once, in her middle school biology class, they were doing a lab that required a finger prick to analyze their blood types. She couldn’t participate, not when the needles Mr. Johnston passed out snapped the moment she tried to prick her finger. 

Is that so bad, that she wanted to bleed? She just wants to know what it’s like, to bleed and  _ hurt  _ like her Mom, like her friends, like every other  _ human  _ on the damn planet. 

Then again, she’s not really human, is she? She’s a superhero. She’s a gift from above, her Mom says. 

_ So, why doesn’t it feel like that? _

-

When she’s fifteen, she gets into a car accident with her Mom. 

It was late in the night, the roads barely visible through the failing headlights on their car that probably should have broken down ages ago. Her Mom was behind the wheel, driving them home from a midnight mass, humming absentmindedly to some old song on the patchy radio. She sat in the passenger seat, curled up against the window, barely awake. She had stayed up longer than she should have the night before, and getting up early this morning to practice her powers hadn’t helped. She was exhausted, and just wanted to climb into her bed and sleep. 

The deer in the middle of the road forcing her Mom to swerve abruptly into the trees had different ideas, apparently. 

It was so sudden, jolting her from near sleep. The car twisted, skidding along the street with a horrible squeal. The seatbelt was forced into her shoulder harshly, head whipping around in a way that would give any normal, non-supe person, whiplash. 

_ Like her Mom.  _

The car rammed through twiggy bushes that pelted the windows and metal until it was thrust to a stop when it rammed into a tree. The hood groaned as it warped, drowning out her Mom’s surprised cry. 

A cry that was cut off as her head slammed into the dash. 

A cold shiver of fear went down her spine when her Mom didn’t get back up.

‘’Mom?’’ She reached out, shaking her limp shoulder. Her head moves a bit, and the first thing she sees is the red staining her Mom’s skin on her forehead. She has to swallow back bile.  _ Blood _ . Gritting her teeth, she rips the seatbelt tangled around her, and does the same for her Mom, catching her unconscious form when she begins to fall. She’s breathing, and her pulse feels thready, but the blood coating her hair and dripping down the side of her pale face is burning in her mind. 

She needs to get help. Propping her Mom against the seat, she lifts her hands aglow with light and power, and focuses the blast on the mangled door, until there’s enough space for her to crawl out, dragging her Mom with her. 

She’s met with the bright headlights of a passing car, pulling to a stop at the sight of the crash. ‘’Help! Please, my Mom, she’s hurt!’’ 

It’s a nice couple, young and frantic as they help her bring her Mom back up to the road and call for an ambulance that doesn’t take long to arrive. The paramedics are kind, wrapping her in an itchy, grey blanket and securing her Mom to a stretcher. They ask if she’s hurt, and something bitter burns in her when she answers no. 

She  _ should  _ be hurt. Her neck should be aching, her shoulder should be bruising with burst blood vessels. She should be bleeding, just like her Mom. Instead, her skin remains empty. No marks, no cuts or scrapes. She’s standing here perfectly fine as her Mom has to be loaded into an ambulance and taken to a hospital because her head won’t stop  _ bleeding _ . 

She doesn’t say this. She doesn’t say anything, just flashing her eyes gold to let them know that she won’t need any medical attention. 

-

Her Mom is discharged from the hospital with a neat line of stitches along her hairline and a large bill. She comes home and sleeps most of the day, which is apparently normal for head injuries. 

Annie wouldn’t know. She’s never had a head injury before. She’s never had stitches before. She’s never needed a hospital because her skin is invulnerable and muscles like steel. 

For the first time since grade school, she decides to put that to the test. 

She doesn’t have an answer for her Mom when she asks about the fist shaped holes in the wall the next day. 

Her knuckles remain unharmed.

-

Green is quickly becoming her least favorite color. 

The verdant light is mocking her. It’s bright, creating dark shadows in the cell and shrouding her in a green that saps her energy. Her eyelids were heavy, and just pacing the room was making her break a sweat. She’s been awake for barely thirty minutes and she’s already worn out, becoming unsteady on her feet. Something is wrong with her, but her head’s too jumbled to make sense of it. The only thing on her mind was that Vought not only had her, but her Mom too. She can’t let anything happen to her. 

Steeling herself, she tries to blast the door again, but her hands just flicker like a dying fire. 

‘’Damnit.’’ She hisses, turning to continue her previous pacing. She doesn’t know what to do without her powers, without her strength. She’s stuck in this cell, trapped within Vought and she doesn’t have control of her own  _ fucking  _ powers. Something hard and bearable burns in her gut, a restless feeling that something is wrong, that she’s in danger. She’s not a supe right now, she’s human, and it makes her so angry that someone could have that power over her - 

She didn’t realize what she was doing until her fist collided with the metal wall, and  _ fuck _ . Pain radiated through her knuckles, up her arm, and into her chest. Her fist throbbed in a way she’s never felt before, and  _ oh _ . That’s her blood. 

The skin around her knuckles was raw and spilt, blood beading and staining her fingers. It was hot and uncomfortable and such a shocking red that she just stared. 

She’s never seen her own blood before. 

‘’So, Starlight, what do you think of it, being human?’’ 

She whips around, backing into the same wall she just punched. Homelander stood there, shoulders straight and arms crossed behind him. He grinned at her, mocking and cold and threatening all at once, eying her like a piece of meat. 

She swallowed, but didn’t say anything, her mouth going dry when he takes a stop closer. 

‘’Edgar’s been working on it, this light. It’s supposed to be a dimmer for compound V, lessening its effects,’’ He stops in front of her, close enough that she can feel his breath on her lips. ‘’And enhancing the natural human state of vulnerability.’’ 

A gloved hand raises, and swipes softly along the curve of her cheek. In another world, one might describe it as gentle, but she’s seen what that hand can do, and knows nothing about it or the man it belongs to is gentle. 

‘’Which means, Starlight, that I can do this,’’ He backhands her suddenly, forcing her head to the side as a stinging pain swells in her cheek. She let out an involuntary cry, remembering vividly how he choked her in the elevator just days ago, eyes bright red with fury. ‘’And not have to worry about your  _ sorry ass  _ trying to fight back.’’ 

-

Hughie probably should have been more concerned about the nonchalance with which he walked around with Lamplighter’s severed hand, but there were more important things to worry about at the moment. Like Annie. Annie, trapped somewhere in this hellhole of a building, probably being tortured somehow for information on him and the boys. 

Once Lamplighter torched himself in the middle of the meeting room, he and Butcher split up to cover more ground, each with one of Lamplighter’s charred, dead hands, with enough fingerprints intact to get them through doors. 

He pressed against the wall, poking his head around the corner to see into the next hallway without giving himself away. The blaring alarms overhead drowned out any noise he might make, but also any footsteps he might hear. He didn’t see anyone, just an empty expanse of white walls lined with metal doors, and - 

Hughie gulped. Stomach swirling dangerously. Bloody footprints, leading away from one of the doors, disappearing around the next corner at the end of the hall. The red was stark against the tiled floor, bright and eerie. He sidestepped the prints, trying not to look at them any more than necessary, to get to the door from which they came. His hand shook as he brought Lamplighter’s limb to the fingerprint scanner beside the unsuspecting door. Nothing looked out of place, no dents in the metal or blood smears, but something about it caused his heart to stutter in his chest. The door clicked and swung open, only to halt when it hit something with a quiet thud.  _ God _ , he wished he and Butcher hadn’t split up. Silently praying that it wasn’t a dead body, he squeezed through the crack the door left, and nearly vomited at the sight. 

A ghastly green light shone on an  _ hopefully  _ just unconscious Annie, sprawled out in a pool of something dark and wet and looking suspiciously of blood. 

_ God, her blood.  _

‘’Annie,’’ He fell to his knees and ignored the feeling of his pants immediately soaking in the red puddle, dropping Lamplighter’s hand to the side. ‘’Annie, can you hear me?’’ He shook her shoulders, moving his hands to cup her pallid cheeks. She was breathing, albeit shallow, her pulse was barely a flutter beneath her skin, probably because her blood was everywhere  _ but  _ her veins. 

‘’Annie, wake up,  _ please _ .’’ What the hell was he supposed to do? She’s not supposed to be able to bruise, let alone bleed, so how the hell did she end up like this? He tried to lift her head, brushing damp strands of hair away from her face. Her brows furrowed at this, whimpering into his palm in a way that just pulled at his heart, but remained decidedly unconscious. He could feel tears threatening to escape. 

‘’Bloody hell,’’ A distinctly British voice exclaimed from the doorway. ‘’Literally.’’ 

He turned to Butcher with wide eyes. ‘’Help me!’’ 

Butcher stuffed his Lamplighter hand into his jacket pocket, and climbed over Hughie into the room. ‘’Jesus, the hell happened?’’ 

Hughie sniffed. ‘’I-I don’t know. I found her, she’s breathing, but, Butcher, what do we do?’’ His voice took on a desperate tone, cracking and pitched, panicked. 

‘’Hey, kid,  _ Hughie _ .’’ Butcher gripped him harshly by his collar, jolting him to attention. ‘’Calm down, yeah? We need to get her out of here. Can you carry her?’’ 

The steadiness in his voice was odd, and Hughie almost thought he sounded concerned, but he pushed the thoughts away for now. ‘’Yeah, yeah, I can.’’ Carefully, like she was made of glass, he slid his arms beneath her knees and back, hefting her up, pretending not to notice the heat of her blood, slick on his wrists. She was light, head lolling around until Butcher gingerly moved it to lay on his shoulder. A soft, distressed noise escaped her lips, tensing, but not waking. 

He followed Butcher out the cell, letting him take the lead. He looked down at Annie, much too pale and still in his hold. 

_ Oh God, there’s so much blood. _

-

When she wakes up, she expects to see red eyes and a patriotic cape shrouded in green. Instead, it’s to a large living room with expansive windows that allow sunlight to stream through, quite the contrast from the green light she was previously exposed to. She doesn’t recognize the couch she’s on, or the walls around her, and she wants to freak out, but the mere thought of trying to move sends an ache through her muscles and pain lancing through her nerves. 

She’s never felt exhaustion like this before.

‘’Annie?’’ 

There’s a hand on her forehead, another on her cheek, and she can’t help but flinch, remembering all too clearly Homelander’s touch, a touch that turned so violent, so quickly. The hand freezes momentarily, before running a thumb along her skin. 

It wasn’t Homelander. 

‘’Annie, you with me?’’ 

Hughie. Gentle, kind Hughie. 

‘’Hughie,’’ His name came out in a breathy sigh. She could feel a warm breath in her hair, then lips pressed to her crown. ‘’Hughie.’’ She repeated in a whisper, and felt him nodding. 

‘’Yeah, yeah, it’s alright, you’re alright.’’ His voice had a tremor to it, and when she finally got a good look at him, she could see tears in his eyes. 

But also relief. 

‘’You, uh, you lost a lot of blood, somehow, but you’re gonna be okay.’’ His fingers were in her hair, brushing it out soothingly. Her eyes fluttered without her permission. It just felt so nice, his warm touch, tender and gentle and nothing like the bastard that locked her up in that horrible room with that horrible light. 

‘’It’s okay, you can rest.’’ 

-

She used to be jealous of those who could bleed with human ease. 

Not anymore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annie, Butcher and Hughie are the brot3 that we didn't deserve but got anyway and I'm not complaining


	11. day eleven - struggling & crying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heeeyyyy *waves awkwardly in month and a half absence* I'm so sorry it took me this long to update! Things are hectic with school and writer's block has been kicking my ass. I hope this can make up for it! I appreciate every single one of your kudos and comments! 
> 
> Warning, this has some violence, and depressing themes canon typical of Kimiko's storyline. Please practice self care if you continue to read! <3

For the first couple of days off the boat, they kept her in a cellar. It was cramped, and smelled of mold and urine. Deep gouges were scratched into the wall, crusted in dark, dried blood. She’s not the first to be held here, wherever  _ here  _ is. She’s not sure, and the men who locked her in here did not tell her. They don’t tell her  _ anything _ . They rarely ever speak to her, and when they do, it’s barking orders and cruel threats that shake her bones and paralyze her vocal cords. 

She hasn’t heard the men for days. Or, she thinks it’s been days. There is no light in the cellar, just a shrouding darkness that makes it hard to tell time. There is no noise either, just a piercing silence that begins to hurt, after a while. It’s too quiet,  _ too quiet _ . There is nothing but  _ her _ , her and her breathing, her crying. She came from a bustling forest and shouting men, moved to a boat that boomed with waves and alarms. 

Now, she’s stuck in silence and shadows and it  _ hurts _ . 

-

When they hold her down, rough hands yanking at her brittle hair, pressing bruises into her shoulders, jabbing a needle in her exposed neck and injecting her with something bright and blue that  _ burns  _ in her veins, it’s not quiet anymore. 

-

She’s different. 

She’s  _ angry _ . The men have changed her, hurt her. Her fingers are like steel, muscles rigid beneath her skin. The gentle girl her Mama raised, the hands she had used to soothe her brother when he cried, were gone. Instead, they were weapons. Things of violence that can crush a skull, rip into muscles and tendons, and bring a shine of terror to her captor’s eyes. 

She hates it. Despises it. This isn’t her; not her hands, not her body. This strength is not her’s, it’s unnatural and wrong and enrages her that the men have done this. 

-

When she gets the chance, she attacks. 

They men are moving her again. She catches a glimpse of buildings that touch the sky and crowded streets littered with trash and pigeons, and realizes she’s in some sort of city. If she could get away from the men, find someone to help her, she might be able get home.  _ She just wanted to go home _ . They had loaded her into a van, securing her tightly. After injecting her with the blue chemical, she found the zip ties and duct tape did nothing to keep her down, and it was easy to break free. She found herself being held with shackles, thick, metal chains that chafed and cut red rings into the skin around her wrists and ankles. 

One of the men drove, another in the passenger seat, and a third one who watched her in the back, gun in hand. 

And the key to her chains. 

She knew she should have been more careful, should have planned more, but the only thing keeping her from the outside world, from food and a bed and clothes that didn’t stink of blood and sweat, was a  _ breakable  _ man and the thin walls of the van. 

She thinks she hears the radio in the background, and counts the beats before shooting out a foot and shattering the man’s shin with a sickening crack. He screams, the van swerves, and she’s thrown around on the floor by the force, but so is the man. Breathing hard, she crawls to the howling man, ripping the gun from his hand and bending the barrel, rendering it useless. She’s tempted to do the same to his hand, hands that held her down,  _ hands that hurt her _ -

He screams again, and she knocks him out with a swift fist to his nose. She ignores the way it bleeds beneath her knuckles, bones crumbling, and grabs the key from his belt. 

Her hands shake, jabbing the key into the lock by her feet, and then her wrists. The two men in the front are shouting, and speeding horribly if the honking and angry yells around them are anything to go by. 

She lunges, going for the driver. Her hands wrap around his neck, and he wails, as blood curdling as the other man did. 

She doesn’t notice the other man pull a gun, doesn’t notice him aim. 

She doesn’t notice, until he pulls the trigger and a bullet lodges in her head. 

-

Waking up is a surprise.

Her head aches, a resounding pain that circles and surrounds, worse than the injection and worse than the camp. She tries to move, but her hands are stuck and won’t respond. 

_ The gun, the bullet.  _

She gasps a stuttering breath. She was shot,  _ shot _ in the head and she’s still here. She’s breathing and her head aches but she can’t feel any blood. She pulls at the chains again, and tries to look around. This definitely isn’t the van she was last in; it’s a dingy room with no windows. There’s some wooden crates, pieces of metal, rotting drywall, and a small t.v. in the corner. One wall has something that might have once been a door, but instead there’s rusty bars, sealing her in this room. 

Through the bars, she can see the familiar men, along with some new ones, sitting around a table and talking. 

She doesn’t scream. She doesn’t cry. She just curls up on the cold ground, and closes her eyes. 

-

She can’t remember the last time she showered. Her hair is greasy and matted, dirt and grime have built up on her skin from months of neglect. Her nails were chipped and stained, and she tries to remember the last time they were polished and colorful. 

The t.v. was playing in the background, choppy and grainy, tunes coming from blown speakers. The characters are smiling, happy, and such a contrast to the men’s laughter and taunts. She likes the sound, and wouldn’t let the men turn it off. The amount of fingers she’s broken, hands snapped at the wrist of those who tried to switch it off, is grotesquely plentiful. 

The song is interrupted by footsteps on the stairs echoing through the basement. She furrows her brows, listening intently. There shouldn’t be anyone coming today; when visitors do come, the men panic, and rush about the rooms, preparing the same blue chemical they forced into her. The men seem to realize this, and stand cautiously, each raising their guns. She says nothing, and crawls beneath an old table, hiding from sight, bringing bony knees to her chest.

There are voices whispering, harsh and demanding. She doesn’t recognize them, and it makes her shake a little. She can’t see them from where she hides, and can only imagine them snooping about the room, looking for something they call compound V.  _ Was that what was in her, compound V? Is that what made her like this, like a monster? _

A creak outside the barred door makes her lungs freeze up in her chest. Someone’s coming closer, someone puts their hand on the bars, someone opens the door. 

_ Someone opened the door.  _

She pounces, and  _ runs _ . 

-

The men who freed her locked her up too. But, it feels different. They are not shackling her because they want her subdued, they are shackling her because they are as scared as she is. 

One of them is nicer than the others. He speaks with an accent she doesn’t know, and sits by her during the night. He gives her food, food that is actually cooked and tasteful, unlike the bread and oatmeal her old captors gave her. He is kind, and speaks softly, calling her  _ mon coeur  _ and giving her blankets when she shivers and shakes. 

-

He calls her a miracle in that alley way, when her flesh heals itself before his eyes, and she doesn’t feel that much like a monster anymore. 

Together, they make their way back to the safe house. She’s still shaky on her feet, and there’s a twinge in her side when she moves the wrong way. He puts his arm around her waist cautiously, and she tries not to flinch. There’s a voice in her head telling her to rip, to run, to get his hand off her side, and she ignores it. He made her food, kept her warm. He does not intend to harm her. She lets him lead, guiding them back through alleyways and sidewalks, shrouded in night. 

The other men are not there when they return. It’s empty and dark, but that doesn’t seem to concern him. 

‘’Let’s get you cleaned up, hmm?’’ He says, and she nods quickly. God, she doesn’t even care if it’s with a bucket and hose, she wants to be clean and washed and put on clothes that aren’t stained and ripped. He shows her to the bathroom, pointing out the generic shampoos and soaps that he’s stashed under the sink. She stands there lamely, holding the bottles like they’re precious metal; she can’t really believe she’s going to get to  _ shower _ , it’s been so long. 

He stands in the doorway, hands stuffed awkwardly in his pockets. ‘’Uh, I can run to the store, get some other things,’’

She sucks in a breath, shaking her head rapidly. She doesn’t want him to leave, she doesn’t want to be alone. He looks a little surprised at this, eyes wide. 

‘’Okay, mon coeur, I’ll stay, alright?’’ He soothes, and she breathes a little easier. ‘’I’ll call M.M., get him to stop at the store.’’ 

He steps out, leaving the door open a crack, which she appreciates. She doesn’t think she would be able to handle a closed door, locked or not. She can hear him on the phone, and lets his hushed words fall into the background. 

There is no bathtub, just a small shower. She stares for a moment, and turns the knob. It squeaks, followed by pipes groaning, and then water sprays down, loud and fast. It’s a shock, and she stumbles away, knocking into the sink counter. 

She strips quickly, throwing the soiled clothes to the floor, kicking them away. She doesn’t want to look at them anymore than she has to. The mirror above the sink reflects someone she doesn’t recognize. They’re gaunt and pale with dark hair that falls over their face and hollow eyes. They look like they’re decaying, skin stretched over bone and wasted muscles. 

She turns around quickly, and steps carefully into the shower. 

The shower is long, and she lingers in the spray long after the water has gone cold, and Frenchie does not say anything when she finally exits. At some point, he left clothes on the sink counter for her. They’re loose on her thin frame, but they’re warm and comfy, swaddling her in a feeling she hasn’t felt since before she was taken. Her favorite is the sweater, bright and yellow and soft. 

She tries to look for a hair brush, but the bathroom is sparse. She fidgets with the ends of her damp hair as she leaves, and sees Frenchie and one of the other men, Mother’s Milk, talking at the long table. They fall silent when they see her, Mother’s Milk shifting uncomfortably, unlike Frenchie, who smiles softly. 

‘’Well, mon coeur, nice and clean, hm?’’ 

She can feel her cheeks redden, and she hides behind her hair. M.M. might chuckle, or it could’ve been a grunt. She’s not quite sure about him yet, he’s civil towards her, but he doesn’t trust. Not like Frenchie. 

Frenchie stands, holding a plastic bag she didn’t notice before, and hands it to her. Peaking in, she sees brushes, toothpaste, hair ties, and a couple of things weighing down the bottom. She wishes she could say thank you, voice her appreciation to these men who saved her, who don’t run in fear, who treat her like she’s still human. 

She doesn’t realize she’s crying until a tear rolls down her cheek, dropping off her chin. 

‘’Are you alright?’’

She looks up, and Frenchie’s looking at her nervously. Even Mother’s Milk seems concerned, eyeing her with furrowed brows. Her eyes burn, and throat feels heavy. She wants to thank them. 

Before she can stop herself, or really think better of it, she jumps into his space, wrapping her arms around him for a brief moment, a short and impulsive hug that she hopes conveys her thanks. She sniffles when she pulls away, swiping at her eyes and swallowing back a lump in her throat. 

Frenchie has a small grin, eyes crinkling. ‘’You are welcome,  _ mon coeur _ .’’ 


	12. day twelve - broken bones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heyyyyy I didn't forget you guys! This I think is longer lol and took me a while to write and finish up in a way I liked but I think it turned out pretty good! This is focused on Billy, Ryan, and Becca (who is alive bc I said so) post season two. 
> 
> Trigger Warning for the first couple of paragraphs, they deal with child abuse canon typical with Billy's childhood, if you don't want to read that, you can skip ahead to after the second line break, the paragraph that mentions Mallory.

He was nine years old when he first broke a bone. 

It was December, nearing the holidays. Icy winds had come in, and the neighborhood had been coated in a sheet of snow and slush and grey skies that contrasted with the colorful lights on the houses and the bright wreaths on the doors. Mum liked decorating, pinning up tinsel and strings of lights and ornaments around the den and hallways of their home. His Father on the other hand, would sit in his chair by the corner of the living room, grumble about the glare of the lights on the telly, and tell him that he  _ wasn’t getting jackshit for Christmas _ . Mum would laugh like it was a joke, but her lips pulled down tightly into a frown. 

They were making cookies one night, sugar cookies that they would leave out later that week for Father Christmas. Lenny was seated in the high chair at the end of the table, babbling squeaky noises and covered in frosting and flour. Mum was stirring some more dough, and had given him the job of sorting the cookie cutters. She had the radio playing in the background, soft music that made him smile, and sprinkles that smelled sweet, and he was  _ happy _ . 

Then his Father walked in, carrying a shovel and his winter coat. His brows were drawn, and he spoke gruffly when he told him to clear the driveway and steps of the snow that had started falling. 

He didn’t want to. He wanted to stay inside where it was warm, where Mum and Lenny were, and decorate cookies. But his Father was staring cooly at him, and he knew that he would only take one answer. He climbed down from the stool he was perched on, taking the coat and shovel without a word. Mum stayed silent too, only Lenny’s infantile babbles could be heard through the tension that had fallen over their kitchen. 

It was much too cold to be outside, a stark numbness sinking into his fingers and toes, shivers that shook his bones, but he knew it would hurt more to refuse, so he shoveled. He went up and down the driveway and sidewalk, digging into the ice and slush dirtied by the mud and asphalt, and he dug and shoveled until his shoulders ached, until he couldn’t feel his nose, and the world had a blur to it. 

He did what his Father wanted, and then some. He did everything  _ right _ . Yet, when Billy tried to go back inside, cold fingers clumsily reaching for the door knob, his Father was there, face twisted into a scornful glare, pushing him off the steps roughly. He fell to the side, sliding on the ice and landing on his wrist with a hard  _ thunk _ .  _ God _ , did it hurt, pain spreading through the small and warped limb, and he thinks he’s just broken a bone. 

He hears his Father shouting, and doesn’t bother listening to the curses. Mum is right behind him, pushing him out of the way and kneeling by Billy. 

His head hurts from the cold winds, his wrist is swelling and tender, his Mum is crying, and all he can think is that he did what he was told,  _ so why did he hurt _ ?

-

He didn’t invite his parents to the wedding. He let them think that it was him who made that decision,  _ him  _ who purposefully left them out from the invitations Becca and her sister spent ages carefully crafting, him who ignored and blocked their messages and phone calls about the engagement and marriage.

In reality, it was Becca who put her foot down. He had long ago revealed to her about Lenny, about their Father’s rough hand and their Mother’s passive indifference to the bruises and breaks. She was adamant that they would not be present that day, refusing to have them anywhere near her, near  _ Billy _ . 

-

It only took a couple of weeks for Mallory to secure a house for Becca and Ryan, away from Vought, from Homelander. It was actually situated near M.M.’s family home, just a couple of blocks away. It was already furnished, stocked with food and basic toiletries to last them until they were able to go shopping on their own. 

Becca told him she wanted him with them, that she wouldn’t have him gone, wouldn’t be away from him,  _ again _ . 

He wanted more than anything to be able to wake up beside her, hear her hum in the shower, help her reach her favorite mug he accidentally put up on the top shelf when unloading the dishwasher. He’s wanted this for  _ eight damn years _ , but -

Ryan. 

The kid has long since challenged his long held belief of supes being complete and utter  _ assholes _ , no matter the age, the background. He had thought the kid would be a mini-Homelander, cruel and uncaring, a spitting image of his cunt of a Father. He should have taken into account the fact that this was  _ Becca’s kid _ . Ryan wasn’t raised in a lab like Homelander, wasn’t raised by parents like Billy’s own, he was raised by  _ Becca _ . It became glaringly obvious in the woods that day, when he looked Homelander dead in the eyes and chose Billy, grabbing his hand and standing by his side, over his unconscious Mother. And at the hospital, when Becca was being treated, Ryan refused to be more than three feet away from Billy, and visibly tensed when anyone unfamiliar came near. 

Ryan wasn’t Homelander, he wasn’t Stormfront, he wasn’t a thing of Vought’s, he was Becca’s, through and through, and that’s what worried him. He wasn’t a ‘parent’ type, he didn’t know the first thing about children, or how to handle them; he wasn’t  _ soft _ , like Becca, like M.M. He was rough with jagged edges that he feared would cut, hurt the kid. 

He was scared that he would undo what Becca had accomplished. 

_ Scared that he would end up just like his Father.  _

Becca, ever understanding, ever sweet, gave him a compromise; one month with them, living with Becca and Ryan, and if he still had reservations, she wouldn’t fight him on leaving. 

He was still nervous, still worried, but agreed.

He could never say no to her.

-

The first week with the pair was awkward, to say the least. He felt almost like a stranger, an outsider interfering with the routine and the life Becca and Ryan had built up over eight years alone. Becca woke up early each morning, and followed the same actions, the same behavior. Take a shower, check on Ryan, make the bed, check on Ryan, start breakfast, check on Ryan. 

_ Wash, rinse, repeat.  _

He didn’t know how he fit into this, if he did at all. Ryan seemed just as lost as he was, slinking around the house in silence, hiding out in his room, curled up with a different book each day. The kid had barely spoken to him, and Billy pretended not to notice how he would leave a room with a hushed excuse the moment he entered. 

It’s Thursday, and he's drinking coffee in the kitchen when Ryan breaks that pattern. Becca’s in the other room, switching out the laundry loads, and has given him the task of planning lunch, but he’s no Frenchie, and has spent the last ten minutes trying to search up a good pizza place near them. He hears shuffling, too quiet and too close to be Becca. Looking up from his phone, he sees Ryan in the doorway, small and unsure. The kid is fidgeting with his shirt sleeves and staring more at the floor than Billy, but he murmurs a short  _ Hello _ , and pads in, climbing onto a chair at the table, across from him. 

“Hey, kid.” He sets the phone down beside his mug. What the hell else is he supposed to say?  _ I’m sorry your Dad turned out to be a cunt and you learned that your whole life is a lie?  _

“What’re you doing?” Ryan asks, leaning forward on the table on his elbows, and sounding every bit like a curious child, eyes wide and head tilted. This might be the first time Ryan reached out and  _ spoke  _ to him without Becca there as a buffer, and he’s honestly a little scared about saying the wrong thing. 

“Tryna order some lunch,” He starts, copying his stance, leaning forward. “What’d you think? Pizza?” 

“Order pizza?” His brows furrow, as if he hadn’t understood the question. “You can order pizza?” 

_ Oh yeah _ , he grew up on a compound with security that wouldn’t let anyone not Vought approved in a thirty mile radius. He’s never gotten the chance to actually  _ order  _ a pizza, order any food. 

He tries not to let any pity show. “Yeah, you can pretty much order whatever food ya’ want, have right at your door.” 

“Oh.” Ryan avoids his eyes, fidgeting with his sleeves again, fraying them at the edges. “Cool.” 

He picks up his phone again, opening it back up to the website he was on for a pizzeria a couple of streets away, and hands it to Ryan. “Here, pick whatever you like, alright? Your choice today.” 

Ryan looks at him in surprise, the hint of a smile forming, letting him know he did something right, even if he wasn’t sure what. “Really?” 

“Yep, just no pineapple alright? That shi-stuff’s gross.” 

Ryan laughed with a full smile, and began swiping through the phone, asking him every so often what a certain dish was. 

(They didn’t see Becca by the doorway, hiding behind the beam and watching them with a watery, proud grin.) 

-

By week two, he brought Terror home. Becca was  _ ecstatic  _ to see the bulldog, in tears and on her knees, holding Terror close as the dog jumped around, wagging his short tail and whining, barking. He’ll admit he got choked up, seeing Becca and Terror together for the first time in eight years.  _ He did promise to bring his Mum home _ . 

Ryan was apprehensive at first, standing farther in the living room, just watching his Mum and the bulldog. He seemed torn, inching closer with pursed lips, and Billy’s reminded of the pizza thing only a week earlier. Has this kid ever seen a dog in person before, ever pet one? 

“Ryan, hey, come here,” Becca beckons, looking over her shoulder with a soft smile. “I want you to meet someone.” 

He steps forward, slowly, and kneels next to Becca. He’s pulling at his sleeves again, stretching the fabric, and Billy idly thinks they’ll need to get him some new shirts if that keeps up. 

“Ryan, meet Terror.” She says, tugging at Terror’s studded collar to keep him from pouncing on the boy. “He was mine and Billy’s, from a while ago.” The dog can barely sit still, sniffing at the hand Ryan offers, nudging at his fingers until Ryan drags his hand through the coarse fur. It takes a minute, but soon Ryan is scratching Terror behind the ears, grinning down at him. 

“He’s nice,” Ryan says, and laughs as Terror rolls onto his back, baring his stomach, tongue hanging out. “Why’s he named Terror?” 

“You can blame Billy for that.” 

“ _ Oi _ , he was supposed to be a guard dog, he needed a guard dog name.” 

“Uh huh, a guard dog that just wants a belly rub.” Becca’s voice goes high pitched, grinning wider, and scratching his belly. She always spoiled him, bringing home too many toys and bones. 

Okay, maybe he spoiled him a little bit too, if the pile of stuffed animals back at his aunt’s home was any indicator. 

-

Sometime during the third week, Mallory had agents drop off bins of paperwork, photos, and reports from Becca and Ryan’s old home. Apparently, Congresswoman Neuman had worked out an agreement with Vought, allowing them into the compound to clear out the home and collect items they would need returned. He had quickly carted the boxes into their own room, while Becca distracted the kid. 

(He saw the way Becca teared up, crossing her arms protectively around her. Her eyes glazed over, and she looked so  _ tiny _ , staring at the bins like they were going to attack her. 

“ _ Hey _ ,” He runs a hand over her shoulder, and she startles. “Beccs, what’s going on in that head of yours?” He keeps his tone low and touch gentle as she turns to face him, and he runs his hands over her upper arms soothingly. She silent, sniffling softly, and he can only imagine what twisted up, Vought stained memories are in her mind right now. 

“Um, I don’t want Ryan to see any of this, see me like this,” Her voice is thin and shaky, and he nods in understanding. He can’t picture the kid seeing the documents from Vought proving his entire life a carefully constructed _lie_ , ending well. 

She took the chance to take Terror for a walk for the first time in eight years, and bring Ryan with her. It didn’t take much convincing, as he’s never done something as simple as  _ walk a dog _ , and was nearly out the door before Becca could put her shoes on. And, well, Billy Butcher does not use the word ‘cute’,  _ however _ , Ryan’s excitement to go around the block a couple times with his and Becca’s dog, was, well, cute.)

It was after Ryan went to sleep, Terror curled at the foot of his bed,  _ the traitorous bastard _ , that they started going through the papers. They each took charge of some boxes, spreading out around their bedroom floor. It was a lot of homeschooling reports and worksheets, all the way from preschool to whatever grade a nine year old would be in now, and all riddled with Vought tests and experimental questions that he guessed was supposed to gauge how Ryan was reacting to his upbringing. Then there were the medical records, the doctored files that studied Ryan’s biology and growth and made him want to vomit because  _ fuck  _ Vought and their  _ utter  _ lack of morality. It enrages him, thinking about it, thinking about them holding Becca in their confines for years, using her  _ son  _ as leverage, all because Homelander was royally fucked in the head. He’s sitting there, absolutely seething -

Then he finds Ryan’s birth certificate, and the air leaves his lungs. 

_ Ryan Andrew Butcher _

He never really thought about the kid’s name. It was just  _ Ryan _ , Becca’s kid. Ryan, the first natural born supe. Ryan, the child who brought down  _ Stormfront  _ and could name all the states and their capitals when stressed, the child who sneaks food to Terror under the table during dinner with a sly grin, the child who sleeps with a nightlight because he swears the shadows are his Dad, coming to take him back. 

“Billy?” Becca’s moved beside him, hand on his arm, a question of concern in her tone. “You’ve been staring at that piece of paper,” She must see what exactly is in his hands because she quiets, a soft  _ oh  _ escaping her lips, and her grip on his arm tightens. 

It’s a fight to get the words out over the lump in his throat, as he stares still at the ink on the certificate. “You, you gave him my name?” 

Her hand is on his cheek, guiding him to look back to her, and he finds himself locking onto her warm eyes. “Of course I did.” She says simply, as if that answers any of the questions in his head. 

“Why?”

“Well, it  _ is  _ my name too, you know,” She keeps her voice light, airy, soothing her thumb across his cheek. “And, um, his name was one of the few things I had control of, and there was no way in  _ hell  _ I was gonna let those assholes name  _ my  _ son anything close to the bastard who fathered him.”

He doesn’t say anything because he doesn’t quite know  _ what  _ to say, instead just pressing his lips onto her palm, holding her hand to his face with his own.  _ God, he missed her. _

“Also, I guessed I just really,  _ really  _ wanted him to be yours.” She whispers softly, like she’s revealing a long held secret, a thought she never believed she would be able to say. “I could at least pretend, for a little while, that he was.” 

-

Things are good, dare he say  _ peaceful _ by the time they reach the fourth week of domesticity, so of course, that’s when the other shoe drops. 

-

The kitchen is dark, and there’s an odor of burnt pasta that still sits abandoned on the stovetop. He’s sat himself at the table, bag of ice atop his bruised and quickly swelling fingers, bent out of shape and throbbing, despite his makeshift ice pack. His phone is in front of him, dark and bare, as he waits for Becca to come home. She had finally managed to get a day out with her sister and Mother, a family that waited as long as he did, and wanted her to themselves, just for a couple of hours. She tossed around the idea of bringing Ryan along so he could properly meet his aunt and grandmother, but after hearing about his meltdown in public with Homelander and Stormfront, and his apparent hesitance at being in crowded places, he agreed to stay home with the kid. 

Now, well, he’s alone in the kitchen with fingers that most definitely need to be casted, and Ryan hasn’t left his room for hours, Terror whining, scratching at the closed door. 

_ Fucking hell.  _

There’s a sound of tires on asphalt, headlights shining through the front windows, and he releases a breath of relief. He hadn’t wanted to disturb her, take her away from her sister and Mother, but he quite honestly had no idea how to even begin to fix this. Fighting, beating the shit out of Vought’s cunts, he could do  _ easy _ , but talking to an emotional supe child that he’s been acting as a sort of, kind of parental figure to for the past month? Yeah, not so much. 

He hears the sound of keys jingling in the front door, and Becca’s rushing into the home, panicked and wide eyed, dropping her purse and keys onto the table, and giving him a once-over, gasping silently when she sees the state of his hand. 

“What happened?” She asks, moving the ice to prod at his sore fingers. “Where’s Ryan?” 

“Kid’s in his room, been in there for a bit.” He explains, keeping his voice low. “I’m sorry -  _ ah _ !” He hisses, pain lancing through his wrist as Becca lifts his hand, and  _ yeah  _ those are broken fingers. She grimaces. “Sorry, I need to look.” 

He’s a little surprised, honestly, that she hasn’t asked more about the kid, then again, he can understand the hesitance to voice aloud the question  _ did my superpowered son break my husband’s hand? _

“He didn’t mean to,” He starts, because someone has to, and he’ll do just about anything to get that look of fear off her face. “He  _ didn’t _ . We were just watching the telly, he was showing me his lego things and got just  _ spoked _ , squeezed my hand too hard, couldn’t control his strength.” 

Her brows furrowed, fidgeting in her spot. She wanted to check on Ryan, he could tell. It’s been hours since she’s had him in her vision, and he knows that makes her anxious. It must be taking quite a bit of restraint for her to stand there with him, getting the whole story before running off to her son. “What, what scared him?”

Billy swallowed heavily, avoiding her eyes though he didn’t know why. “On the telly, there was some fuckin’ Vought commercial with Homelander, and he  _ panicked _ , thought he was back for him.” 

“Oh.” She says, thin and shaky, and he has a sudden urge to apologize. He brings his uninjured hand to her shoulder, running his thumb soothingly. 

“Once he realized what he did, he kicked off into his room, refused to leave. And I… I didn’t know what to do.”  _ Lord _ , he hates admitting when he’s clueless, but it’s Becca and she’s looking at him with sad, watery eyes. 

“Billy,  _ hey _ , it’s alright. We can talk to him, it’ll be okay.” 

“We?”

“Yes,  _ we _ .” 

He lets Becca lead him to Ryan’s bedroom door, Terror the ever present  _ terror  _ is still in the hallway, jumping up on Becca’s legs. He’s nervous, and it’s a nervousness that he hasn’t felt since that day in the woods, a nervousness that is a masquerade, a false face of the true concern he feels for the kid.  _ He’s worried for a child, a supe child.  _

Huh.

“Ryan, honey,” She raps her knuckles against the wood, wrapping her other arm around herself. “It’s Mom, and Billy. Can we come in?” The kid doesn’t answer, but now that he’s closer he can hear muffled sniffling and stuttering breathing. 

“Ryan?” She says again, and he knows that Ryan can hear them, he probably heard their entire conversation in the kitchen, so he’s ignoring them at this point, and Becca seems to know it too, as she twists the knob and pokes her head in. She enters the room fully, flipping on the light, and he decides to stay in the doorway, feet frozen on the floor, catching sight of Ryan curled in on himself on the bed, crying, and looking so goddamned  _ guilty  _ that it bloody well breaks his heart. 

“Oh baby,” Becca murmurs, sitting beside him, running her fingers through his blond fringe. “It’s okay.”

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” He whimpers, and sounds so much like he did that day in the woods, when he lost control of his powers, lasering not only Stormfront, but Becca too. The kid looks from Becca to him, his eyes watery and cheeks tear stained. “I’m sorry, Billy,  _ I didn’t mean to _ .’’ Becca shushes him, and brings the boy into her arms, and holds him close, and he can’t very well just stand there anymore, now can he?

He shuffles in, feeling much too big and out of place, but kneels by the bed anyway, trying not to jar his injured hand. “Kid, I’m not mad, okay? No one here is mad at you.”

Ryan lifts his head from his Mum’s shoulder, hesitantly, and stares at Billy with wide eyes. “But I,”

“But  _ nothing _ . You didn’t do anything wrong, it was an accident, okay? You are not in trouble, no one is mad.” 

Ryan nods slowly, but his expression wavers. “A-Are you sure?” 

“ _ Yes _ , Ryan,” Becca chimes in. “Everything is okay.”

The kid’s still looking dejected, eyes red and shoulders slumped, and he thinks he should do something about that. “Hey, don’t worry, you’re not the first one to break one of my bones, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

“ _ William Butcher _ ,” Becca hisses, knocking his shoulder warningly. 

“Hey, don’t  _ William  _ me, it’s the truth!”

Ryan giggles, soft and light, watching his Mum and him go back and forth, and Billy thinks he did alright. 

-

**_butcher_ ** _ : I need a favor.  _

**_annie_ ** _ : how did you get my number? _

**_butcher_ ** _ : Are you gonna help me or not? _

**_annie_ ** _ : depends _

**_butcher_ ** _ : it’s also a favor for Ryan _

**_annie_ ** _ : fuck you you know i can’t say no to the kid _

-

They’re back in the woods, but this time there is no blood, no guts, and no Vought cunts threatening their lives. Instead, it’s him and Becca, camped out on folding chairs and wrapped up in coats on the edge of a clearing, watching Annie with Ryan. She had agreed pretty quickly to help show Ryan how to best control his super strength, how to reign it in, especially when he gets stressed and loses conscious control of his abilities. And, where there's Annie, there’s Hughie, and somehow, he thinks it was Becca’s doing, M.M., Frenchie, and the Female had tagged along, spread out in their own chairs and snacking from a cooler of sandwiches and juice boxes Becca had packed because  _ yes, Billy, while we’re there, we might as well make a day of it _ . 

His hand is casted, a bright yellow color that he let Ryan had picked out, but he’s 85 percent sure that Annie had convinced him to pick Starlight’s signature color as payback, for, well, trying to kill her. Becca’s already signed it, her name scrawled across the plaster by his thumb, and it’s a childish thing to smile about, but there’s a little heart next to her name, and he can’t help but grin every time he sees it. 

“So,” Becca starts, curling her hands around his forearm, planting her chin on his shoulder, and looking him in the eyes. “It’s been a month.”

She sounds timid, unsure, and he notices her leg tapping against the hard ground, a nervous tic she’s had since he met her. He knows where this is going, knows what she’s trying to ask. And he knows the answer. He thinks he might have always known the answer, it just took a little while to dig it out. 

He shifted, throwing an arm around Becca, pressing his lips to her temple. “Don’t worry, honey, I ain’t going anywhere.”

“Really?” 

“Really.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> bonus:
> 
> It’s calm and quiet, and Becca’s dragging her finger along the plaster of his cast, and freezes. 
> 
> “Billy?”
> 
> “Hmm?”
> 
> “There’s a penis on your cast.” She can barely get the words out through her laughter, and he looks down and lo and behold, there is a phallic shape right beside Frenchie’s name, printed out on the underside of his wrist. Fuckin’ Frenchie. 
> 
> “Oi, Frenchie! You dick!” 
> 
> Maybe there will be some blood in the woods today. 
> 
> Lmao I just wanted to add that ^


End file.
